From Air (Wildfire)

Chapter Six

“To my next midlife crisis.” Cee raises her shot glass with one hand and straightens her rhinestone birthday crown with her other while most everyone from the office celebrates at a bar by the river in downtown Missoula.

Two days earlier, Cee got her first tattoo, her Yorkie’s head on her forearm, to celebrate forty-five. Nobody knew it was her birthday until she showed off her ink. So Betty wasted no time arranging an outing—any excuse to escape her kids for a few more hours.

Now, we’re crammed around two high-top tables by the door, and every time someone comes in or out, the acrid stench of cigarette smoke and vaping aerosol makes its way to us, and a gust of cold air bites my exposed skin. The black strapless dress was a bad idea, but I wanted to wear something special for my first official night out with my new friends.

“Are your teeth chattering?” Betty asks, pausing her wineglass at her lips.

Said teeth chatter while I nod several times.

She chuckles. “Then put your coat on.”

“Then it looks like I’m leaving.”

Betty offers me an eye roll just as the door opens again.

“Be r-right b-back,” I say, grabbing my clutch and navigating toward the back of the bar as if I’m using the ladies’ room instead of searching for heat.

“Could you be more underdressed?”

I turn toward the bar, where Calvin Fitzgerald is perched on a stool with a mug of whatever beer’s on tap in his hand. He makes an agonizingly slow inspection of my dress while wetting his lips.

I had fewer goose bumps standing by the door.

“It’s the only dress I brought with me, and I didn’t have time to shop for a new one.” I hug myself, rubbing my bare arms.

“It’s, uh ...” Fitz’s gaze lingers on my bare legs and red heels.

My heart races, and my fingernails scratch at my skin because I’m a fidgeter, and I think I like how he’s looking at me. And that’s wrong.

It’s against the rules.

I know he’s just toying with me, so I drop my arms and pull my shoulders back as if I’m ready for the paparazzi to take my picture. “See something you like?” I’m not letting him have the upper hand. I’m still planning my revenge.

What is it? I have no idea, but it’s still on course to be epic.

His gaze flicks to mine, and his eyes are a little bloodshot. A slow grin works its way up his face. “I don’t not like it.”

Oh my god!

I’m not drunk. I’ve had three sips of wine. He’s the one with impaired ... everything. It’s a game. Unfortunately, I like this game a little too much.

I like when he looks at me as if I could be his dinner. That’s messed up. Right?

His gaze abandons mine again, and it takes me a few seconds to register his new point of focus. Points of focus.

My erect nipples.

Damn Missoula weather!

Crossing my arms, I clear the frog from my throat. “I gotta get back to my friends. Do you need a ride home?”

He finds my face again. “I’m good. Thanks.”

“Good.” I nod. “That’s good.”

Fitz sets his beer mug on the bar and steps down from the stool, putting us so close I can feel his body heat. As he reaches for my neck, I turn to stone—a stone with a racing pulse. Sliding my gold chain between his fingers, he inspects the round pendant with a sand dollar in the middle. It belonged to my mom. And I would tell him that if I could speak.

“I have to use the men’s room.” He releases my necklace and brushes past me.

Whoosh!

I expel a huge breath and regain my composure before rejoining the birthday party.

For the rest of the night, my gaze wanders to the bar. Fitz buys another beer and plays pool with a guy he seems to know, from the way they’re laughing and chatting.

He leaves the bar around midnight with his friend, whom I didn’t see drinking. I hope he’s the DD.

“Happy birthday, Cee. I’m heading home.” I give her a big hug, and she mumbles something incoherent. “Who’s driving her?” I look around at my coworkers.

Dr. Reichart raises her hand. “I am.” She shrugs. “I don’t drink.”

“Thanks for doing that. I’ll see everyone Monday.”

By the time I make it home, the house is dark except for the porch light. The squeaky front door doesn’t care that I’m trying not to wake anyone. Hopefully, Maren and Will are heavy sleepers.

What about Fitz? Did he make it home?

I listen for any sign of him upstairs. What if something happened and his friend took a different route and that friend wasn’t fit to drive?

Removing my heels to keep them from clicking along the wood, I pad toward the back door, but my brain won’t stop worrying about Fitz. Spinning around, I decide to ease my mind by checking on him. I tiptoe up the stairs, stopping when I hit the squeaky one. After listening for a moment, I continue to the top and creep toward Fitz’s room.

His open door sends my nerves into panic mode. If he were home, it would be closed.

Before waking Will and Maren, I make sure Fitz isn’t passed out on the floor, choking on his vomit.

As I approach his bed, the knot in my stomach tightens. It’s still made. He’s not home.

I turn, running into a dark, monstrous figure. The bogeyman in the flesh. My heels fall from my hands as I gulp down one breath after another to hold back my scream. Adrenaline hijacks my heart; it might explode. If I were eighty, I’d be a goner.

“Booty call?” Fitz asks while I breathe behind my cupped hand.

A sliver of streetlight finds his bare chest, and my gaze slides south a few inches to his unbuttoned and unzipped jeans.

Panic turns into rage, and I shove him. “What are you doing?” I whisper yell.

“Me?” He chuckles in a hushed tone.

“You about scared—”

“The piss out of you?”

“I was making sure you made it home alive.”

“That’s sweet of you.”

I can’t read his tone, probably because everything is muffled by my raging pulse.

“How can I repay you?” He looms over me, lips curled into a smile that’s as ambiguous as his tone. “Are you staying?” He nods to the bed.

My eyes begin to flare, but I temper my reaction by forcing a slow, calming breath through my nose. “I’m pretty good at taking care of things myself. Nobody knows me like ... me.” It bears repeating: I’m not drunk, but I sound like it. Did I really just tell Fitz that I’m an expert at masturbating?

His grin swells. “Well, damn, Jaymes. I’ve never gotten that response before.”

I roll my eyes before plucking my shoes off the floor. “You’re so drunk.”

He pops his lips several times. “I could be.”

I try not to giggle, knowing he won’t be like this in the morning. He’ll eat me for breakfast with one look, and that look will give him the upper hand again.

A creak sounds from the hallway. Fitz pulls me into his chest, walking us several steps to the left so we’re not in the line of sight.

One of the bathroom doors closes.

At first, we don’t move, despite my hands, cheek, and torso being pressed to his half-naked body. I don’t know about him, but I’m a tinderbox. If he tried to kiss me, I wouldn’t stop him.

Warmth floods my body, reaching my toes and the tips of my tingling fingers that ache to curl into his flesh. If he lets go of me, I might pass out from this lightheadedness.

The toilet flushes, and thirty seconds later, Will or Maren exits the bathroom. When we hear the distant click of a shutting door, Fitz releases me.

“Thanks for worrying about me,” he murmurs.

I take a step back and pump my fists to get a little feeling back into my hands, but I don’t look at him. “Of course,” I say with my sweetest voice, too sweet.

I need him to question my sincerity the way he makes me question his.

I need to get a grip and shut this shit down.

I need . . . an orgasm.

“Nighty night, Fitz.” I scrounge every last bit of confidence in my body and blow him an exaggerated kiss.

His lips part in the dim light, brow tight. And that’s how I know he feels it (whatever it is) too.

This cannot happen.